“Howard, goddammit—”
“Shut up, Nick,” said Howard.
“Nick,” said Kelso, “I’ll prosecute that one, too. It happens to be a much more serious charge than the charge against you. You’ll be out in seven years, five with good behavior. She won’t be out for twenty.”
Nick looked at the three men.
“Howard, she didn’t do anything. She didn’t do anything. You can’t do this—”
“You’re the one that’s doing this, Nick. Just like you put Myra in a wheelchair for the rest of her life and doomed her, now you’re going to doom Sally. Is that what you want, Nick? I had a long talk with her when she confessed everything. We have it on tape before witnesses. On top of that, the silly girl thinks she’s in love with you; you’re going to pay her for her innocence by sending her up?”
“Nick, you’ve got to make a decision. You’ve got to do what’s best for you, for Sally, and for the Bureau.”
“And for your country,” said Hugh Meachum.
“And for you, isn’t that right, Howard? And you, Hugh?”
“Nick, you’d better—”
Nick sat back, no longer listening. He wished he could shut them up, wished he knew what to do.
You have to be your own man, make your own decisions, Bob said.
He seemed to be having a little trouble breathing. Nothing was in focus.
“Nick,” said Meachum. “We have to have a commitment from you.”
Save yourself, Nick thought.
He decided to sell Bob out. He couldn’t help him. Bob was gone. It was a pity, but that’s the way it goes. Hardball world. No prisoners. That’s life.
“Think of the Bureau, Nick,” said Howard. “Think of saving the Bureau.”
Save yourself Nick thought.
But when he opened his mouth, what came out was, “Howard, you don’t give a shit about the Bureau. You’re not the Bureau. You’re just one scuzzy little asskisser trying to make it to the top, and you’ll fuck anybody who gets in your way, the way you fucked me in Tulsa seven years ago. I didn’t put Myra in that chair, you did, because you were so fucking scared you wouldn’t shut up on the radio. And I didn’t have the guts to stop you.”
He took a deep breath.
“And I see the last thing, too, Howard, you just bet I do. You’re on Lancer Committee! Right? Yeah, it’s exactly the kind of swank connection a political suck-up like you would go for. And for years now you’ve been slip-streaming for the Agency’s use of RamDyne, and that’s how you meet a piece of smooth-talking scum like Old Hugh over here, who authorized his pal Ray Shreck to wipe out a village and then to hit the one man in the world with the guts to stand up to it. And then framed a great American hero because it was convenient, it tied up a lot of loose ends and protected his own precious ass! And if that ever gets out, you and everybody on the Lancer Committee, you’re all finished.”
Nick stared at them. He didn’t feel particularly serene but he knew what he was going to do now. He took a deep breath, smiled and then spoke his answer.
“Well, this is where it ends. This is where you’re stopped. But let me tell you something, boys. You’re going up against the best. And many’s the time slick operators have thought they had Bob Lee Swagger nailed. And just as they moved in for the kill, he blew ’em away. He’s going to do that to you, too, and I’m going to watch it happen, and then Sally and I are going to walk out of there. Howard, here’s the bad news, buddy. You’re history. You’re the fucking past. It’s payback time. You answer for Myra and you answer for Sally and you answer for Lancer and you answer for the Sampul River and whatever the hell else you’ve done. I’m going to watch it happen. Now get the fuck out of here.”
After they left, he noticed that he couldn’t stop shaking.
Two federal marshals delivered Nick’s subpoena that afternoon, requiring him to appear at the New Orleans District Federal Courthouse two days hence for the Preliminary Hearing for Case Number 44–481, the Government v. Bob Lee Swagger. A sternly worded note appended to the sheet warned him that he was subject to arrest if he failed to appear. Half an hour later, he got a call from the U.S. Attorney’s office informing him that he wasn’t to leave the city as he was about to be indicted on three charges of impersonating a federal officer, and that he’d better get himself legal representation. And before the day was out, to bring off the hat trick, he received official notification that, for failing to show up at the suspension hearing on August 8, 1992, he was formally terminated from service in the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and was under legal obligation to therefore return any and all Bureau property before next Friday or face indictment on charges of grand theft of government property.
For some reason, that was the one that hurt most. There was no return. Howard was cutting off all the exits, preventing all possibilities. Howard was tightening the screws.
Nick returned to his little house in Metairie, mowed the lawn—which needed it badly—paid what bills he could afford, contemplated his desperate financial straits—he hadn’t drawn salary for close to three months—and contemplated his woe.
There were moments at his lowest point when he felt like calling Howard. It would be so easy and it was so tempting.
“Uh, Howard, look, I think I sort of blew it a few days ago, do you think—”
But then he thought of Howard triumphant, Howard bleating, Howard beaming, Howard’s biggest moment. No, he couldn’t do it. He simply couldn’t make himself do it.
He knew he had to do one thing, however. He had to call Sally.
“Hello.”
“Hi. It’s me.”
“Nick—” She was crying. “Oh, Nick, they’re telling me they’re going to charge me with espionage. Oh, God, Nick, what should I do? I didn’t do anything. How can they—”
“Honey, listen to me, they’re bluffing. They’re trying to bump me into doing something that’ll make them look good. Howard’s probably under a lot of pressure to deliver on this thing and to protect his ass, so he’s playing it hardball. But don’t worry. I swear to you, you don’t have to worry. Trust me. They haven’t got a thing.”
Even as he said it, he cursed himself for not having the guts to tell her the truth; that they had everything, and they were going to sweep Bob and himself and her and anybody who’d ever done anything for Bob Lee Swagger away.
“What should I do?” she asked.
“Nothing, for now. Let’s see what happens at that preliminary hearing tomorrow. It’s the deal where the defense can require that the government establish that it does have a reasonable case, so that a trial date can be set. Once that’s out of the way, we’ll see where we stand.”
“Nick—”
“Honey, I know it’s hard. But it just goes on a little longer. Do you want to come to court tomorrow? I’d be happy to take you. It’s not much of a date, but—”
“Yes. Yes, I’d like that very much.”
That night was Nick’s worst. Worst ever. Worst since the night after Myra died. He couldn’t get to sleep until nearly three, and kept thinking of poor Sally in some federal shithole for the next twenty years, of poor Bob being strapped into a chair and blitzed away, of goddamned Howard and his pet prosecutor Kelso and that hoary old fraud Meachum riding the publicity of their triumph on to better and better things.
Senator Howard D. Utey, the man who nailed Bob the Nailer!
It put Nick into dark rage and when he finally got to sleep, his memories were haunted by Howard’s laughing little face, his smug confidence. God, Howard, you’ve dogged me ever since Tulsa.
Why didn’t you shut up on that goddamned radio?
Why didn’t I hit that shot?
Poor Myra. Poor Sally. Poor women who made the mistake of falling for Nick Memphis.
The alarm went off at seven; Nick limped grimly into the bathroom and faced his own grave self, a sallow, scrawny, melancholiac. His crew cut had grown out and the pouchiness of his face had vanished. He was thin as deat
h, and maybe just as hard.
He showered, dressed slowly, putting on a suit for the first time in months, had a cup of coffee and then went to pick up Sally. He had $11 in his pocket and $236 in his checking account and over $4,000 in bills. Today he would be indicted on three counts of a federal felony.
Again, the impulse flew at him to call Howard.
It probably wasn’t too late.
He tried to imagine life after selling out: how nice it would be.
But then he remembered the time Tommy Montoya was forcing the gun barrel of his Colt Agent toward his head and he was a second from his own death, when Bob’s shot had come from nowhere and saved him.
Howard never saved shit. Howard only took.
Hugh Meachum only took.
Okay, Bob the Nailer, thought Nick. In for a penny, in for a pound, going to heaven, going to hell, I’m along for the ride, my friend. Here’s hoping you’ve got it today.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
“All rise, all rise, the Fifth United States Circuit Court is now in session, the Honorable Roland O. Hughes presiding.”
Nick and Sally stood up, with two hundred others, including dozens of reporters, about half the New Orleans FBI office and Howard and his prosecuting angel, Kelso, at the prosecution table, which happened by absurd coincidence to be near Nick and Sally’s seats in the front row of the courtroom. Hugh Meachum sat behind the prosecutor’s table, in a three-piece gray herringbone suit. He had a little red bow tie on and Nick decided he looked three hundred years old.
Sam Vincent also stood. He was a slouchy grandpop with a face like a bowl of walnut shells, and not much hair on his head. He wore a string tie and a pair of bottle-bottom glasses; his fingers were long and gnarly and dirty from the pipe he was continually stuffing when he wasn’t in court, and the thick lenses inflated his pale blue eyes when they fixed on you, so they were as large as shark’s eyes. He was nearly eighty and had won the Silver Star in the Battle of the Bulge in World War II.
“You may be seated,” said Judge Hughes, a stern black man in his fifties. “Now ladies and gentlemen, first I want to warn you that although today’s case has national implications, it is first and foremost a case of law and it will be treated as such. I warn spectators, particularly those of you with the press, to conduct yourself with the proper decorum or I will clear this courtroom in one minute’s time, is that understood?”
His booming voice was met with silence.
“Now, today we are having, at the defense’s request, a preliminary hearing in the matter of the Government v. Bob Lee Swagger; in which Mr. Swagger is accused of murdering a Salvadoran citizen, the Archbishop Jorge Roberto Lopez, on federal property, namely the presidential podium erected in Louis Armstrong Park March first of this year. For you spectators let me explain: this isn’t a formal trial, it’s a hearing to make certain the government has, in my judgment, enough evidence to warrant the formal trial. So there’s no jury. The two attorneys will be arguing for my benefit. Furthermore, the defense is not entitled to bring evidence, but only to attack the evidence the government presents. Now, gentlemen, I want these arguments to be swift and clean. I don’t want procedural detail cluttering up the proceedings. You may save the logrolling for the trial, assuming there is to be a trial, and before you object, Mr. Vincent, please note I only said if there is to be a trial. I’m not prejudiced. Now you may bring in the accused, bailiff.”
And so Bob was led into the courtroom.
In a bright blue prison jumpsuit, with his hands manacled before him, and secured by a chain around his waist that was connected in turn to leg irons, he shuffled in, hair clipped short and face raw and white. He was calm, however, as calm as the last moment Nick had seen him, sitting next to Julie on the floor of Hard Bargain Valley, his face sealed off behind the war paint as Howard’s SWAT team surrounded him.
God, he looked so, so fallen.
“Your Honor”—it was Sam Vincent—“is it strictly necessary to humiliate my client, who has yet to be convicted of a single crime and who was a decorated Marine hero of this country, by festooning him in chains like a common thief?”
“Your Honor,” answered Kelso, just as fast, “Mr. Swagger has a known propensity for both extreme violence and escape. These precautions are merely prudent.”
“Ah,” said the judge, “Mr. Swagger, are you duly uncomfortable or humiliated?”
“Sir, it doesn’t matter to me,” said Bob.
“All right, we’ll undo the manacles, but the leg irons stay. Is that an adequate compromise, gentlemen?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It is, Your Honor.”
“Bailiff, would you make the adjustments. Now, Mr. Kelso, your opening statement please.”
“Ah, thank you, Your Honor.”
Manfully, Kelso strode to the center of the courtroom.
“Your Honor, the government will demonstrate very simply that adequate proof exists to conclude that at approximately twelve-nineteen P.M., on March first of this year, Bob Lee Swagger did in fact fire a shot from an attic at Four-fifteen St. Ann Street in the French Quarter of this city, that, though aimed at the president of the United States, did strike and kill Archbishop Jorge Roberto Lopez, of Salvador, El Salvador. Mr. Swagger had the classic three-part modus operandi to accomplish such an act, that is, motive, opportunity and means, as we shall demonstrate. And that, Your Honor, should be that.”
“All right, Mr. Kelso. Thank you. Mr. Vincent.”
Nick’s heart sank a little when the old man stood on rocky legs, and essayed a little sally past the defense table where he sat alone with Bob. It was a contrast to the team of bodies that surrounded Kelso and Howard at the prosecution table.
“Well, sir,” he said, looking fully his eighty years, his rheumy blue eyes staring at nothing in particular, his suit a collection of bags that hadn’t seen a dry cleaner but had seen more than a few pipe cleanings, his clunky black shoes unshined, “I s’pose you could say we’ll show the other side and that this decorated war hero could not—”
“Objection, Your Honor, Mr. Swagger’s war record isn’t in question here and is irrelevant to the proceedings.”
“He’s got a point, Mr. Vincent.”
“Well, hell, sir, if they say he’s a shooter then damned if they oughtn’t to point out it was the U.S. Marines that taught him to shoot and who gave the boy a chestful of medals for it.”
There was an eruption of laughter at Old Sam’s zinger.
“Well stated, Mr. Vincent. But since there’s no jury here today and since I am in fact well acquainted with your client’s military record, perhaps we could forgo, in the interests of moving into the meat of the matter, any further references to Mr. Swagger’s wartime heroism, and perhaps that would encourage the prosecution to forgo any time-consuming pattern of objections.”
“Well, I reckon that’s a tolerable deal,” said Vincent.
“Excellent. Mr. Kelso, it’s time for you to open your case.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.”
Kelso began by introducing into evidence a letter dated December 15, 1991, addressed to the president of the United States, in which Bob Lee Swagger argued in a strident, faintly irrational tone that he deserved the Congressional Medal of Honor for his exploits in Vietnam.
The letter was projected on a portable screen that Kelso’s minions quickly assembled.
“Your Honor, this document was what initially put Bob Lee Swagger on the Secret Service list of potentially threatening suspects and earned him an investigation, albeit a tragically inefficient one, by the FBI.”
Nick winced.
Object, he protested silently. Make the point that Bob was on the C-list, felt to be the least dangerous and that even the Secret Service guys had said he could be skipped.
But Sam Vincent and his client sat mute at their table.
“Your Honor, I have here the depositions of four handwriting experts in the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the New Orleans Police Dep
artment, the New York City Police Department and one widely respected consultant, stating that they’ve identified—well, it varies, Your Honor—but between fifteen and thirty-one similarities in handwriting between this document and authenticated samples of Bob Lee Swagger’s penmanship.”
“Mr. Vincent.”
At last Vincent spoke.
“Your Honor, I know I can’t enter evidence, but if I could, I’d enter three depositions from handwriting experts in Los Angeles, London, England, and Chicago, Illinois, stating that the document is a forg—”
“Objection, objection, surely Your Honor can see that the defense is trying to enter evidence which is—”
“Objection sustained. Mr. Vincent, you do know the rules.”
“Sir, I do and I apologize. But, the truth is in handwriting analysis there’s just no way to know positively. You can have more experts than a mama possum has teats”—laughter from the spectators in the darkness—“and you won’t get any two of ’em to agree. And let me point out one last thing; Mr. Swagger unfortunately didn’t have the benefits of a fancy education like some among us. He’s a product of public schools in rural Arkansas in the 1950s, with no college experience. Thus his handwriting, as you all can see, remained somewhat in the primitive stage; it looks to sophisticated people as if it were written by a child. Now the one thing most handwriting experts agree on is that such a script—it’s called, oh, I think, ‘infantile cursive’ ”—he said this as if he were just making it up—“is indeed the easiest for any kind of accomplished forger to imitate.”
“All right, Mr. Vincent,” said the judge, “I’ll allow that, and keep it in mind, but please remember you are only permitted to attack the government’s evidence, not introduce your own.”
“Yes, sir.”
“How can they win if they can’t introduce evidence?” Sally whispered into his ear.
“He’s got to show that their evidence doesn’t add up to what they say it does,” Nick said.
Meanwhile, Kelso struck back quickly.